Perfectly Broken

by Prescott Lane

  “Or I just hate panty lines,” Quinn said.

  “No, that would be the G-string, which is a dirty naughty girl,” Bret said.

  Peyton whispered to Reed, “What does a pearl thong mean?”

  Reed felt his dick twitch. “Can I find out soon?”

  “What are you two talking about?” Quinn asked.

  Peyton looked up, blushing. “Just wondering about Bret’s theory on going commando.”

  “Easy,” Bret said. “You didn’t do laundry.”

  Peyton sat up. “Let’s analyze the male underwear options, shall we?”

  “Oh, we really must,” Quinn agreed. “Let’s start with tighty-whities.”

  “Guaranteed not to get you laid,” Peyton said.

  Reed gave her a crooked smile. “Good thing I don’t own any.”

  “Bret does,” Quinn said.

  “Hey!” Bret yelled.

  “Oops,” Quinn said snidely. “How about boxers? It’s classic.”

  “As long as no funny slogans or cartoons,” Peyton said.

  “How about the boxer brief?” Quinn wondered.

  “My personal favorite,” Peyton said, winking at Reed. “Usually worn by athletic, well-built guys who are confident in their bodies and in their bedrooms.”

  “I’m going shopping,” Reed said.

  “What about the man thong?” Peyton asked Quinn.

  “No way,” Quinn said. “Worse than bikini briefs. Only weird European men wear those.”

  “I think this could be your next big story, honey,” Bret said. “You could really break some news asking people about panty personalities.”

  Quinn paused for a moment, seriously considering the topic. “Maybe so.” Then she got up off the floor. “Let’s get going I’m starving.”

  “Me, too,” Bret said. “Let’s talk about edible underwear at dinner.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IT HAD ONLY been the usual seven days, but it seemed so much longer. So much had happened. It took Peyton most of her session to tell Dr. Lorraine about everything — the date under the moonlight in Audubon Park, the double date with Quinn and Bret, the flashback at the worst possible time, Reed’s fight with Griffin. Dr. Lorraine reminded Peyton what to do when the flashbacks came: better to turn on loud music, grip ice, or bite into a sour lemon than smack an unsuspecting, lovesick friend across the face. And she wondered if the flashback on the porch had anything to do with Peyton getting increasingly close to a man.

  “Tell me more about Reed,” she said, sitting back in her chair.

  With a gleam in her eye, Peyton reminded her that Reed was an architect and went on to describe the way his steel blue eyes contrasted with his messy, dark hair. She then talked about how he always tried to take care of her and always seemed to flash a smile at the right time, in such a flirty way. She then spent several minutes describing the way his pants hugged deliciously from his hips, giving a glimpse of his washboard stomach if she looked at just the right angle. Then she stopped, catching herself, realizing Dr. Lorraine probably wasn’t looking for a physical description.

  “Keep going, girl!” Dr. Lorraine said, her eyes popping. “I was getting all fired up!”

  Peyton laughed but knew she’d spent far too long already on his physical appearance. She took a deep breath before continuing. “He’s got some family problems and a not-so-stellar sexual past.”

  Dr. Lorraine twirled a pen in her hair. “Sound familiar?”

  “What?” Peyton asked, confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “Aren’t you all those things, too?”

  “No, I’m not sexy....”

  Dr. Lorraine cut her off. “I wasn’t asking about that, but since you mentioned it, what’s wrong with you being sexy?” Peyton gave a look that Dr. Lorraine was a complete idiot. “Rape therapy 101, darling. Rape is not about sex. It’s about power.”

  “I know, I know,” Peyton said, having heard it all before. “I just can’t help but think if I’d had on looser clothes or jeans or if I wasn’t showing a little cleavage that night....”

  Dr. Lorraine cut her off again. “You know all this, but I’ll say it again. Sometimes rapists do pick victims because of their clothing — not because it’s sexy, but because you can’t run as fast in high heels, or a dress is easier access. It’s not about your body or your sex appeal.” Peyton cocked her head to the side and twirled her locket, considering words she’d heard so many times. “The fact that you have a nice tight ass and full round boobs isn’t why you were raped, girl.” Peyton laughed slightly and turned bright red. “Now, would Reed describe you as sexy and smart?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Miss Peyton, you need to think about how Reed thinks about you. You need to see yourself that way. You need to think that he probably doesn’t feel worthy of you because of whatever things he’s done.” Dr. Lorraine pointed a finger at her. “Think about the possibility of that!”

  Peyton shook her head. “It’s different.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. I know Reed would like us, um, to progress in our relationship.”

  “Progress? You mean have sex?”

  “Well,” she said quietly, “more than kissing at least.”

  Dr. Lorraine raised an eyebrow. “Y’all been going out like a month and all you’ve done is kiss?”

  “Yeah,” Peyton said, embarrassed.

  “What do you want to do? Do you want things to progress?”

  “I guess I’d like things to move along, but....”

  “You haven’t told him?” Peyton shook her head. “You’ve got to talk to him. You can do this, Peyton. It’s time to put down your armor. You need to share your heart — especially the darkest part — before you share your body.”

  * * *

  Bret and Reed walked through the old warehouse development. Bret noted a few more changes to the plans, while Reed picked off the last scab from his knuckles, the last reminder of his fight with Griffin. He’d otherwise put it behind him, and it seemed Peyton had, too. It took a day or two for her to calm down, for them to get back on track, though it had taken longer for his hands to heal. It took a good week or so, even with some careful nursing from Peyton. He flicked the scab onto the dingy floor.

  Each night she’d tended to his hands with ointment and bandages. It was all unnecessary to him but important to her, so he held his tongue. He actually wished she’d be more attentive to other body parts. But he didn’t want to complain and certainly didn’t want any more fighting and in the end, was grateful for Peyton’s care. He looked at his hands. It appeared he wouldn’t have any scars.

  He thought of Peyton’s scar near her temple. It must have been a bad fall for it to still be there — an unfortunate life-long reminder. He wondered where and how she fell, and whether she was hurt or bleeding, and if she ever considered having the scar removed, figuring most women would do that. But Peyton had left it. It seemed as much a part of her as her pink lips and baby blue eyes. He could design a skyscraper from top to bottom but couldn’t picture her without her scar.

  “I think you’re growing on Quinn,” Bret said. “She actually suggested another double date.”

  Reed groaned. “Will she hit me if I don’t go?”

  “Probably.”

  “I’ll go. I’m actually starting to like her a little. A little. She’s not quite who I thought she was.”

  “I’m glad you’re starting to like her because I’ve actually been thinking about asking Quinn to marry me.”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  Bret gave a nervous smile. “I don’t have a ring or anything, but maybe in the next couple months.”

  Reed leaned against an old wooden staircase to brace himself. “Well, you know what they say,” he teased, “first the engagement ring, then the wedding ring, then the suffer-ring.”

  Bret winced. “Thanks for that wisdom.”

  “I’m kidding.” Reed shook his hand. “I’m happy for you.” He was st
unned, too — that the guy who’d screwed almost as many girls as he had was now thinking of getting married. And truth be told, he was slightly jealous, too — that Bret seemed so sure, so settled. Reed wondered what path he was on with Peyton. Their relationship was still so new, with an endless string of issues to work through. If it wasn’t Griffin, it was Heather, and if not one of them, it was his father. And he wasn’t even getting any action for all the trouble.

  Bret’s phone rang. Reed turned his attention to some old industrial pipes, now largely corroded, seemingly leftover from the nineteenth century, obviously needing to be replaced.

  “Yeah, Reed’s with me.” Reed looked up from the pipes. “What’s wrong, Quinn? Why are you crying?” Bret’s face turned white. “When?” He listened for another moment before hanging up. Then he turned to Reed. “Gram just died.”

  * * *

  In the foyer of Peyton’s house, Quinn greeted Reed and Bret with tears in her eyes. She hugged them both, then they all walked to the kitchen, where Bret took a seat at the island. Quinn pointed Reed towards the back door leading outside.

  He carefully started that way before Quinn reached for his arm. “I know I’ve given you some shit,” she said, “but you must be doing something right.” She forced a tight smile. “When the call came, all Peyton wanted was you.”

  Reed nodded and started again towards the backdoor, looking through the glass at Peyton sitting alone in her church pew, her hands neatly on her lap, staring blankly at water sprinkling from her small fountain. He hesitated before going out, unsure whether Peyton wanted to be disturbed.

  “Go on,” Quinn encouraged him.

  He took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked outside, careful not to step on the blooming flowers. As he approached, he remembered sitting in Adelaide’s Pie Shop for so many nights, only wanting to take Peyton to dinner, never imagining he’d now find himself in this situation, apparently charged with consoling her after the death of Adelaide herself.

  He drew closer to the church pew, but Peyton kept her eyes firmly fixed on the fountain. He sat down beside her, without any idea what to say or do, unable to recall the last time he even sat in a church pew. He patted her leg with his hand, her only response a single tear falling down her cheek, then another. Then he wiped her cheeks with his fingers, seemingly activating something inside her, the tears now coming more quickly, flowing faster, like water spilling from the fountain before them. He cradled her to his chest, and she soaked his shirt with tears.

  “Whatever you need,” Reed promised and kissed the top of her head. He didn’t say another word because there was nothing else to say — nothing that could possibly comfort a woman who’d now lost her entire family at the young age of 26. He wrapped his arms around her, as she clung tightly to him and wept.

  After a few minutes, Peyton lifted her head and wiped her eyes. It didn’t seem fair or possible that Gram wouldn’t wake up this morning, so unexpectedly, without letting her say “goodbye.” But Peyton knew all too well life wasn’t fair and that everything in life was possible — some good and some truly awful. She leaned back into Reed’s chest and cried some more.

  * * *

  Peyton arranged for the funeral at Holy Name of Jesus Catholic Church on St. Charles Avenue. There was no other option, really. It was where her parents and grandparents married, where she received First Communion and Baptism, where she stood 20 years ago when she buried her parents and received her locket from Gram. She kept a firm focus on making sure every detail of the funeral was perfect. After all, this was the last one she’d have to do. Gram was the last family she’d have to bury.

  Through the planning and chaos, Reed kept his promise. He went with her to the funeral home, fielded tons of phone calls, cooked and cleaned, made sure Julia covered the shop, even helped Peyton pick out a black dress. He was around if she needed him and made himself scarce if she seemed to want to be alone. And at night, he slept in a spare bedroom down the hall just in case she needed anything, though she never asked. Despite all his help, she didn’t eat much and slept even less. The loss, the plans, her life were all taking a toll. In fact, Reed hadn’t seen her smile in days. He missed that, her sweet laugh, her lips on his. He found himself settling for holding her hand, his touch helping her stay grounded, bolstering her quiet confidence — as if she’d done it before.

  On the day of the funeral, friends and family, customers young and old, came from far and wide to pay tribute to Adelaide, each with a story to tell — about her pies, about days gone by in New Orleans, about Adelaide herself. Even the priest shared a story of his favorite pie, pulling out a slice from behind the lectern and raising a fork. “Our dear Adelaide is making Heaven a little sweeter today,” he said then took a bite.

  But not everyone who came was there for Adelaide. A large group of folks came to support Peyton, many of her friends, high school and college classmates, current customers. Griffin, of course, flew down from Chicago and made sure to hug Peyton several times. Reed saw each one and couldn’t tell whether they were for Griffin’s benefit or Peyton’s, but he let them have their moments together. After all, they’d known each other and Gram a long time, and Reed noticed the guy seemed to have a genuine comforting effect on her. For some odd reason, Peyton needed Griffin, and Reed wasn’t going to deny her that — at least not today.

  With each hug and well-wisher, Reed saw Peyton grow weaker and weaker. A week of crazy planning without eating or sleeping had finally caught up to her. He was worried. She needed to eat. She needed to sleep. She needed space to breathe. As soon as the crowd thinned out, Reed offered her some food and suggested she sit down, but she declined and started to clean up. That was the last straw. Reed had seen enough; he gently pulled her aside before she collapsed from exhaustion.

  “I’m taking you away from all this for a little while.” He motioned to Bret and Quinn, fully aware of his plan. “They’ve got things under control.”

  Peyton offered a slight protest which was quickly replaced by a yawn. He let Griffin hug her one more time then took Peyton by the hand and put her in his Range Rover. He turned on some classical music and drove off, Peyton resting her head against the window glass, staring into the darkness.

  “We have a little drive,” he said, reaching into the backseat and handing her a pillow and blanket. “Maybe try to get some sleep.”

  Peyton was too drained to ask any questions. The day had been a whirlwind, just like all the days of preparation. She placed the pillow in his lap, leaned over, and curled into a little ball. Before drifting off to sleep, she gave thanks for a perfect service honoring Gram and for a certain trust she’d developed in Reed — to let him take the lead and take control, at least for now, wherever the hell they were going.

  Reed turned onto I-10 East and settled in for the drive. He looked down at Peyton on his lap. He’d never seen her sleep before, her face soft and relaxed for the first time in days, appearing so fragile now — quite the contrast from how she typically carried herself. Then his mind wandered along the open highway, wishing he could be holding her in his arms, kissing her gently, naked, her full lips not merely resting on the pillow. It’s been so long!

  He shook his head, remembering he’d just come from an elderly woman’s funeral. He tried to focus on the road ahead. But it was impossible. His imagination, his hopes, his desires all occupied his mind, in overdrive, for the full five hour drive.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  PEYTON TURNED OVER in the fluffy down bed and stretched out her arms. She wiped her eyes, finding, surprisingly, she was still in the same clothes, with no idea where she was, or how or when she got wherever she was. She looked at the night table near the bed holding a fresh set of watermelon pink calla lilies then over to the bedroom curtains, the morning sunlight peeking through. At least she thought it was morning. She got up out of bed, and her bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor.

  She walked to the curtains, pulling them back, and sunlight filled the room. Sh
e blinked several times to adjust her eyes, before the sugar sand beach along the Gulf of Mexico came into view. She gasped and took a step back, placing her hand on her chest, shocked Reed had remembered and that he’d even do this for her. She slid open the door, and the Florida heat, even for March, hit her hard. So did the cool rush of the Gulf breeze carrying a salty smell and misty spray. She took a few steps out onto a deck and down some wooden stairs, then her toes hit the sand. She made her way out to the water.

  Reed saw her from the den window, all alone in a black dress on the white sandy beach. It looked like a beautiful photograph advertising the Florida beaches, and there was something painfully beautiful seeing her alone with only her grief. He waited a moment before heading outside, giving her the space he assumed she needed.

  Peyton sat down on the soggy morning sand and held her knees against her, letting the waves crash onto her feet. She thought back to when she’d come here, to Seaside, with her grandfather and the words he’d always say. Give your sorrows to the sea. Let the sea carry them away. She twirled her locket, as the tears came down.

  Reed walked out towards her, wearing a t-shirt and bathing suit, and wrapped his arms around her.

  “Very sweet you remembered,” she said, wiping her face.

  “I remember everything about you,” he said. Peyton leaned her head on his shoulder. “For the next few days, I’m going to take care of you here.”

  “But I have so much to do at home and at the shop.”

  “Don’t worry about all that,” he said, stroking her hair and kicking away some green seaweed. “Quinn and Bret are taking care of the thank you notes and cleaning up the house and whatever else, and I closed the shop for you until next week.”

  She looked up at him. “You arranged all that?”

  “Yeah.” He kissed her on the head. “I got tons of groceries here, too. The fridge is stocked. I want to make sure you eat.”

  “Did you get hot dogs?”